The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “So you know,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, Judy—I can call you that now, can’t I? I mean, it is your name.” I didn’t answer him. My eyes were burning holes through him. “Judy, don’t be angry,” he continued. “How could I go on seeing you the way we were? I didn’t know your name. I didn’t know anything about you. You were a woman wearing a mask who’d come into my apartment through the window. We’d make love and you’d leave. What kind of relationship is that?”

  “You’re an FBI agent. I had to be careful.”

  “You’re right, and you know what? I’m supposed to have you arrested. It’s one of my assignments. I’m supposed to track you down and put you behind bars. But I don’t want to.”

  My heart was pounding in my chest. “Does anyone else know my name?”

  “No. I haven’t told a soul. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Not yet? You mean, you plan to?”

  “Look, it’s all I know. I don’t even know where you live. Yet. And keep your voice down. You don’t want to attract too much attention here, do you?”

  I looked around the diner. No one was watching us, but Lucy saw me and came over to the table.

  “Hey, honey, do you two know each other?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said. “John and I, we’ve been seeing a bit of each other.”

  “Really?” She was surprised. “How come you didn’t say anything?” She addressed John and said, “No wonder you’ve been coming in here a lot.”

  Oh, so today wasn’t the only time he’d come to the diner!

  She asked me if I wanted anything to eat, but I was too upset to think about food. I asked for a cup of coffee and she went away, obviously sensing we were in the middle of a serious discussion. The record on the jukebox changed to “Dream Lover” by Bobby Darin. Oh geez!

  “Look, Judy,” he said, “maybe the Stiletto should just disappear.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to be her. She could just put away her costume and retire. It’s a dangerous business anyway.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well, then we could date each other. For real.”

  I was taken aback. “So in other words, you couldn’t do that if I remain the Stiletto.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m a federal agent. I have a responsibility to my job.”

  “Wait, is this some kind of ultimatum? If I give up the Stiletto, we can live happily ever after as lovers, but if I don’t you’ll have me arrested?”

  “When you put it like that it sounds harsher than what I mean. I care about you, Judy. I don’t want to see you in jail and I don’t want to see you hurt. That bruise on your face—it’s not becoming of a beautiful girl like you. If you stopped the vigilantism, I could tell my boss that I believe the Stiletto is either dead or left the city. And then you and me, well, we wouldn’t have to hide.”

  I couldn’t believe it. What kind of a choice was that? Give up the Black Stiletto and be his girlfriend, or don’t give up the Stiletto and go to jail. And I thought I was starting to fall in love with this guy. Dear diary, I felt my heart tearing in two, right then and there.

  “You would really have me arrested?” I asked. “Even after all we’ve—?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I want to know the real Judy Cooper. And I’d keep your identity a secret for the rest of my life. No one would ever know.”

  I gritted my teeth. “How can you do this? This is some kind of blackmail or extortion, you know that, John? You’re trying to use our shared intimacy against me. You think I’m gonna cave and fall for the strong, handsome government agent. If that’s so, then you don’t know the real Judy Cooper at all. You want to arrest me? Go ahead. Make the call right now. And I’ll tell the world how you went to bed with me first. I’ll say how you had no problem with that. Is that conduct becoming of an FBI agent? Are they gonna give you a medal for fucking the Black Stiletto and then putting her behind bars?”

  He blinked. He was shocked by my use of the “F” word. I even shocked myself, but I was so mad I couldn’t help it.

  “Judy—”

  “You want to arrest me? Then do it. Let’s see if you’re man enough.” At that second, Lucy came back with my coffee. Before she put it down, I stood and walked out the door. I didn’t look back. I’m sure there was an awkward moment between her and John. I didn’t care. I’m sure Lucy will want to know all about it tomorrow and I’ll find out what he said.

  When I got back to the gym, I was ready for a fight. I needed to release some tension. I saw Mike Washington sparring with Jimmy in the ring. They both wore boxing gloves and face guards.

  “Washington!” I shouted.

  They looked up.

  “You and me. Let’s spar,” I said. I went over to the bench, pulled off my shirt and trousers, revealing the leotard and tights I had on underneath. I grabbed a face mask and gloves, and climbed into the ring. I gave the gloves to Jimmy and told him to tie ’em on me. Washington’s brow furrowed; he wasn’t sure what this was all about. Jimmy removed his own gloves and did as I said. Then I was ready. I asked Jimmy to referee.

  Washington shook his head. “I ain’t gonna do this.”

  “What, are you a coward? I heard you were a big tough boxer. You went to prison for killing someone. You afraid to fight a girl?”

  His eyes flared at the mention of prison.

  “Weren’t you part of the mob? Taking falls for the Mafia? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re involved in all that crime in Harlem. You know Carl Purdy? Is he a friend of yours?”

  Something passed over his face when I said that. I’d hit a nerve. I don’t know why I said it, it just came out. Whatever. It made him mad enough to go through with it.

  Jimmy rang the bell. We came out dancing. I moved in quickly and struck him with a jab. He put up his hands to defend himself like a pro, but I managed to deliver an uppercut and another jab. He wasn’t trying.

  “Come on. Fight back!”

  I hit him again and again, but Washington just took it or blocked my punches. This went on for a few minutes. I was the one getting the workout—he mostly stood in one place, only swiveling his body to face me when I danced around him. Finally, the bell rang.

  “What’s the matter, Washington?” I taunted. “Did prison kill your drive? Or are you up in Harlem shooting up heroin with Carl Purdy’s gangsters?”

  That did it. He raged across the ring at me and the bell hadn’t rung for the second round. He slammed me with a roundhouse that knocked me to the floor. Everyone in the gym gasped. They couldn’t believe what they’d seen.

  Jimmy tried to step in. “Hey, let’s calm down. Mike, that wasn’t fair, man. I don’t know what’s going on here, but—”

  By then I was on my feet. “Shut up, Jimmy. This is between him and me.”

  Washington and I started again, this time without the timing of a round. He jabbed, I crossed, he delivered a half uppercut, and I cross countered. Then it was a real fight. Anger drove us forward, but we were sufficiently trained to keep cool and box properly. Offense, defense, block, slip, a hook, a punch, cover-up, bob, weave, jab, jab, jab.

  The blows became fiercer. I really wanted to knock the guy down. I could tell he wanted to hurt me.

  Punch, duck, block, jab, uppercut, weave, jab, jab, jab.

  Then a whistle blew loudly, echoing through the gym.

  “Stop! Right now! Stop it!”

  It was Freddie, of course. He climbed into the ring and got between Washington and me.

  “What the hell is going on here? Mike? What’s this all about?”

  I answered for him. “I made him spar with me.”

  “It didn’t look like sparring to me. What’s the matter with you two?”

  “Sorry, Freddie,” Washington said, “I was just doin’ what she wanted.”

  Freddie looked at me. I must have been a mess. There I was, half dressed, huffi
ng and puffing, flushed with fury. He had rarely seen me in such a condition.

  “Go shower, Judy,” he said. “Cool off. Then stay upstairs. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Great. Now Freddie was mad at me. I shoved my gloves at Jimmy, who untied them. I pulled off the face guard and dropped it at Freddie’s feet. Then I stormed out of the ring and went to the stairwell. My shower wasn’t in the regular locker room, which was for men only. I had to go upstairs to the apartment to “cool off.”

  It’s now hours later and I’ve settled down. I don’t know what came over me. When I was a child I had a nasty temper. I guess some of that boiled to the surface today. I’ve been avoiding Freddie, but eventually I’m sure he’s going to sit down with me for a “fatherly” talk. Everything will be fine. I’ll have to apologize to Washington and then we’ll all go on as before.

  But what about John? Will he really turn me in? And can I help it if I still have feelings for him? What if he’s right? Should I retire the Stiletto? Could I live with myself?

  He said he wanted to know the “real” Judy Cooper. I’m beginning to wonder if she exists.

  35

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  Electing to stay with Gina as much as she could, Carol refused to go back to Chicago for the time being. I told her I’d be happy to stay—I didn’t have a job waiting for me. Carol replied, “You can do what you want, Martin. I’m here for Gina.”

  I spent all of Tuesday morning at the hospital. Gina was in better spirits and it looked as if she would be released later in the day. We were waiting on her doctor to give her a final checkup and officially discharge her. I love my daughter dearly, and I would have stayed at her side as much as I could, but with Carol there fussing over her, I felt like a third wheel. I suppose it would have been different if Carol and I were still married. Or maybe not. So, when we heard Dr. Rahman would be delayed until nearly four o’clock, I asked the ladies if they’d mind if I went out. Through her wired jaw, Gina suggested I go to the Museum of Natural History. I’d been there before, but I replied that was a good idea. I promised to be back before she saw her doctor, and Carol had my cell phone number just in case. I think Carol was glad to be rid of me.

  Needless to say, I didn’t go to the museum. I was reasonably familiar with the subway system; buying a MetroCard and using public transportation would certainly save a fortune in cab rides. Armed with a handy MTA map, I could travel practically anywhere in the city quickly and efficiently. That was one good thing about New York.

  Another improvement I noticed upon boarding the #1 train to Times Square, where I would transfer to the R train to go to the East Village, was that the trains were much newer and cleaner than they had been in the eighties when I last visited Manhattan. Back then it was downright creepy to ride the subway. At least it was for me, an out-of-towner. People who lived in the city didn’t seem to mind what I thought was an intangible but ever-present atmosphere of impending violent crime. Call me a coward—I was uncomfortable with New York then, but I must say it seemed different now. With 42nd Street now the land of Disney and family entertainment instead of a mecca of porn shops and drug dealers, Manhattan was downright friendly.

  Once I was downtown, I made my way to Second Avenue and 2nd Street. I didn’t see the gym where my mom lived and worked—but in its place was Shapes, one of those chain gyms for women. I put my face up to the big plate-glass window to peer inside. Plenty of women were busy on treadmills and Nautilus equipment. Almost all of them gave me a dirty look. To them I was probably some pervert wanting a glimpse of hot babes in workout clothes. I moved away, somewhat disappointed. It would have been nice to see the place as it had been in the late fifties.

  From there I walked north two blocks, and lo and behold, the East Side Diner was still there. I couldn’t believe it. I’m sure it had had a facelift since the fifties; at least the signage was modern. The interior looked just as I imagined it, although it was possible the booths and counter stools had been reupholstered. A jukebox stood in the corner. I went to it and was convinced it was the same one my mother had loved. It sure looked like an antique. They had updated the playlist, of course; it had a bunch of songs not only from the fifties, but from the sixties and seventies, too. There was only one Elvis Presley single—“Heartbreak Hotel.” Since the thing was all lit up, I figured it still worked; so I threw in a quarter and played the song in honor of my mother.

  I sat in a booth, ordered a BLT on rye, and then called Woodlands to see how my mom was doing. She was unable to talk on the phone anymore, but I sure wish I could’ve told her where I was. The nurse I spoke to said she was doing fine. Mom was eating and sleeping well, and she seemed relatively calm and happy. Even though she wouldn’t understand the message, I asked the nurse to tell my mom I was away, that I loved her, and that I’d see her soon.

  As I ate my sandwich—which was darned good—I gazed at my surroundings. It was difficult to wrap my head around the fact that the diner was such a central part of Mom’s life in New York. I wondered if Lucy was still alive. Should I try to look her up? Would anyone at the diner know? Would they remember Judy Cooper?

  The two waitresses on duty were young. The cook behind the grill was black. I figured the odds weren’t too good that I’d learn anything. Besides, it would be awkward to explain who I was. So I ate my lunch, paid, and went quietly on my way. Still, it was something of a transcendental experience to sit in a place so pivotal to the Black Stiletto’s history. And no one knew about it but me.

  And John Richardson.

  If the FBI had indeed delivered my message to him, the man hadn’t responded. There were no missed calls on my phone.

  So I decided to take the bus up Third Avenue to 21st Street. That’s where my mother had indicated his apartment building stood, if it was still there. From what I’ve read in the diary so far, it sounded like the relationship between Mom and Richardson didn’t turn out too well. Nevertheless, I found myself drawn to check it out.

  The building in question, between Second and Third, appeared to be pretty old, so I figured it was the same structure. Throwing caution to the wind, I went inside the inner foyer where the residents’ mailboxes were located. One by one, I read the names until I came upon #502. And there it was: “J. Richardson.”

  Holy mother of God! What were the chances of that?

  I pushed the call button for his apartment. After a moment, a voice came through the little speaker by the mailboxes.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  His voice was raspy, like an old man’s. “John Richardson?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you the John Richardson who was with the FBI in the nineteen fifties?”

  Hesitation.

  “Mr. Richardson?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

  “Mr. Richardson, my name is Martin Talbot. Did you get my message? I called the FBI’s New York office yesterday. They were supposed to forward it to you.”

  Another pause. “Yes, I received it.”

  Oh, wow. What now?

  “Well, what I said is true. I’m Judy Cooper’s son. I’d like to talk to you. May I come up?”

  Then there was an awfully long silence.

  “Mr. Richardson?”

  “Fifth floor.” The inner door buzzed.

  36

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  AUGUST 20, 1959

  I’ve been in the dumps for a month, dear diary. The incident with John really gave me the blues. The only bright spot so far in the past couple of weeks is that a new Elvis record came out—“A Big Hunk o’ Love.” I love it, of course, but being heartsick and all kinda takes the thrill out of it. “Sea of Love” by Phil Phillips captures more of my mood, but the lyrics make me sad. “There Goes My Baby” by The Drifters is also right on target.

  As you can see, I haven’t been doing much but listening to the radio and playing records. Actually, you know what record hits my mood right on the b
utton? Freddie bought a new album by the jazz artist Miles Davis. It’s called Kind of Blue and it’s the talk of the town. It’s so melancholy and dreamy at the same time. What is it about Negro musicians that give them the ability to bring out that emotion so well? I’ve heard a lot of those jazz musicians use heroin. I don’t know if it’s true, but maybe that’s why the music is so painfully beautiful. You can feel the hurt in it.

  Other than sitting around and listening to music, I work in the gym, have lessons with Soichiro, and visit Lucy and Peter. They still haven’t set the date for their wedding, but it’ll probably be next spring. She asked me to be her maid of honor. I told her I’d treasure it, but deep down I’m kinda sad. I’d like to be in love and have a steady beau, but it just hasn’t worked out that way so far, has it?

  As expected, Lucy wanted to know all about John. I told her I’d met him at the diner one day when she wasn’t working. I hate to tell fibs, but it’s a little one. I said we went out a couple of times but we didn’t hit it off. She couldn’t understand why. “He’s so handsome in that suit and hat of his,” she said. That he is. “And he’s an FBI agent! How romantic!” I guess that’s true. Anyway, I told her to forget it. If it means anything, he hasn’t come back to the diner since that day. And he hasn’t sent any feds to arrest me. Maybe my outburst made him think twice about it. I don’t know and I don’t care.

  Well, I do care, but I pretend not to.

  I went out twice as the Black Stiletto. Maybe I was looking for trouble, but I didn’t find any. It’s been a hot summer, and I guess the crooks are trying to stay cool. I’ve been reading, however, that there are more heroin deaths occurring in the city, mostly in Harlem. I’m considering going after Carl Purdy and his organization. Even if it is too big for me, like John said, it would be worth a try. But then again, it’d be like going after DeLuca’s family. An impossible task.

  One thing I’ve done to augment my Stiletto activities is buy a camera. With that I can document crimes in progress or use it for surveillance. It’s a new Kodak Brownie Starmatic and it’s automatic. I can also adjust the exposure to compensate for poor lighting if I want to. The number 127 film is a little high priced, if you ask me, but I like the camera and it fits snugly in my backpack when I want to go places. So far I’ve taken pictures at the gym to test it out. A lot of the guys want copies for laughs.